


Knowing Me

by slashsailing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angry Sex, Crack, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fighting Kink, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr & Mrs Smith type scenario ficlet. </p><p>Leo and Jim have an outwardly normal, suburban marriage. Leo is a doctor and Jim is a pilot. Except that's not true, they're agents for the FBI and CIA respectively, they just don't know that yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing Me

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this would be a bit fun and so I did it for you guys. It's just something quick. Hope you like it!

“I’ll start.” Jim says with that assured, cocky smile. “First off, we don’t really need to be here… We’ve been together six years; we’re happily married, very happy, right?” He turns to Leo.

“Very.” Leo nods. “We’re only here because a friend of ours-”

“Nyota.” Jim supplements. “She won couples therapy at a raffle at a work function.”

“She thought it’d be funny.” Leo adds.

“But you didn’t have to come.” Mister Spock, their new marital counsellor, points out.

“Well no, obviously.” Leo huffs.

“But I have this theory.” Jim says, grinning.

“Oh God, preserve us.” Leo mutters.

“This, this _session_ , it can be like a check-up, or a, an _MOT_. You know, take a look under the hood and make sure everything is ticking the way it should be.” Jim explains.

“The comparison between your marriage and a vehicle's engine is illogical.” Spock says with a slow, confused intone. “Let us instead start with something simple. On a scale of one to ten how happy are you in your marriage?”

“Eight.”

“Ten.”

“Eight?” Jim questions.

“Well you can’t just jump right in with a ten at these kind of things.” Leo huffs. “It’s too eager.”

“It’s _true_.” Jim insists. “I’m perfectly happy in our marriage.”

“We’re not _perfect_ , Jim.” Leo reminds, and then he looks to Spock. “That all?”

“How often do you have sex?” Spock asks.

“I don’t understand the question.” Leo says.

“Yeah, is this a one to ten thing because-”

“No, it is a genuine question.” Spock clarifies. "You may answer however you see fit." 

“How often do we have sex?” Leo repeats.

“We have very demanding jobs.” Jim says. “Leo’s a doctor.”

“And Jim’s a pilot; he travels a lot for work.” Leo explains.

“That’s how we met.” Jim says.

“In Cuba.” Leo nods. “I was at a medical conference.”

“It was my layover.” Jim explains.

…

Cuba was a veritable war zone; Cuban troops, police, guerrilla groups, all vying for a piece of control. Jim was sitting at his hotel bar, mojito in one hand, fingers of the other trailing across the gun in the waistband of his slacks. He doesn’t want to get involved, this was just meant to be a quick in-and-out job and now the place is being ransacked around him.

“What’s happening?” He asks the barman, his Spanish is rusty but he seems to understand the slight concern in Jim’s eyes.

“Somebody killed Nero.” The barman whispers, his English just as rough as Jim’s Spanish. “They’re rounding up single tourists.”

A police man saunters towards Jim, whose hand is still lingering behind his back, ready to draw his gun if the need should arise. “Are you alone, sir?” The cop asks. Jim really doesn’t want to start this but he’s not being locked up in a Cuban prison over that tattooed drug baron, especially seeing as though he didn’t even get the joy of killing him. No sir-y.  Jim registers a commotion at the front entrance of the hotel, a smartly dressed man, dark hair, tanned skin, he’s American too. The hotel security is asking him if he’s alone too. They’re eyes lock and Jim smiles.

“You’re with him?” The cop asks Jim, who nods, the police officer shouts something in Spanish to the security team and the man starts to walk towards Jim.

“Jim.” He introduces.

“Leo.” The other man returns. He takes Jim gently by the wrist and leads him back to his room, they lean against the door listening to the various commotion still going on within the hotel, Jim takes a look out of the window, the gritty streets are overturned and Jim can see the trace of smoke in the distance. Leo’s a good looking guy, Jim doesn’t mind being held up in a hotel room together, wonders if he’ll maybe get a quick lay out of it.

“Nero ran this province for years, they’ll say his murder is just a local vendetta but the CIA have wanted to pop the asshole since the eighties.” Jim says conversationally, sitting beside Leo on the floor, back against the door.

“And you know all this, how, exactly?” Leo wonders.

“I read Time Magazine.” Jim shrugs with a playful smirk.

Later they head out together, down a little alley way into a local bar, off the beaten track where all the young Cuban’s come to dance. Sometimes it’s a salsa, or the rumba, sometimes the band will play a mambo. For a while Jim and Leo just sit at a table, they’re outside and the air is humid, their shirts stick to them and Leo’s fringe is flattened against his forehead. Jim signals to the bartender and a bottle of tequila is brought out, whole limes, salt, a knife. They make a good headway through the bottle when Jim takes hold of Leo’s wrist. Licks a stripe over the creases found at the radiocarpal joint, shakes salt over the wet strip of skin, pours out a shot, places the lime in between Leo’s teeth.

 _All_ without breaking contact from those gorgeous, rich hazel eyes.

Jim mouths at the salt, tongue tickling slightly before he knocks back the shot, tequila burning as he sucks the lime from between Leo’s lips. The doctor delicately draws the rind from Jim, who is still reeling from the bitter, sour, sweet, salt, and presses their lips together.

…

Leo had woken alone in Jim’s room, sheets just barely covering his backside, love bites painfully drawn into his shoulders. He should be more careful really, this wasn’t exactly the sort of place one could toy around with a one night stand. Cuba certainly wasn’t a playground.

But then Jim is reinterring from the ensuite, cotton pants hung low on his hips. Leo forgets about his job for five sections, he’s hit his mark already; flight wasn’t for another four days. Maybe he could just enjoy this.

…

They get on a plane together, they head back to the Frisco, move into an up market apartment just outside of the Castro. They go on dates, see museums, exhibits, go to the movies, to the carnival when it’s in town. They realise that the other is a wealth of useless knowledge and that they enjoy each other immensely. Mind and body. It happens too fast. But they don't pay any mind to the warnings of their friends. They get married six months after first meeting each other. They’re jobs, real and the pseudo lie they have to spin, keep them apart a few days each month, for stints at a time. Leo tells Jim it’s just easier for him to do his shifts in long batches, says he’ll sleep at the hospital if he’s on call. Jim spends two weeks a month pretending to be flying a plane instead of maybe shooting them down. But they don’t suspect.

Maybe because they’re both lying.

Or maybe because they’re both in love.

…

“And intercourse?” Spock prompts again.

“It’s great. Always has been.” Leo huffs.

“Amazing even.” Jim agrees.

“Amazing.” Leo nods, throwing his gaze over to Jim and then back to Spock.

“But not a regular occurrence.” Spock surmises.

“It is when we’re both at home.” Jim says. “That just happens less, lately.”

…

Their mobiles ring simultaneously. It’s two o’clock in the morning, Jim just wearing a pair of boxer briefs and Leo's in some pyjama pants. They each make non-specific replies in return to whatever the caller is saying and then they hang up, look at each other and laugh awkwardly.

“I have to go in, a flight has been delayed and the pilot's wife has gone into labour so he needs to get to the hospital.” Jim says.

“The on-call physician has just come down with a respiratory infection so I need to cover.” Leo counters.

“How weird.” Jim says.

“I know; what a coincidence.” Leo nods. 

…

“I know we rarely hit our own, McCoy… but the CIA is up our ass on this one, Piper got hit when we tried to intercept Harrison, the CIA took a play at him and they got whatever it was they were looking for. A parcel, of some kind, intel maybe... or hardware we don’t know. But we need it. So I need you to put this CIA agent back in his place and get whatever it is he seemed so keen to hold onto. I want it done quick and clean and you’re the most dependable asshole left at the Bureau.”  Boyce says from across the table.

“Thanks, Philip.” Leo smirks. “What’s the spec?”

“James Kirk, been with the CIA for ten years, he was a young recruit, twenty two at the time but he’s seen more action than even some of the most decorated agents. If anyone is going to pull Harrison in it’s him and I can’t have the CIA getting him when we’ve worked so hard for it.” Boyce says. “I’ll send you a more detailed spec electronically and you can take it from there.”

…

“Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy.” Pike says. “He’s the best the FBI have and he’s just been transferred onto the Harrison file. If the Bureau get him, Jim, you’re going to be out of a job.”

“Understood.” Jim nods. “Send me the details and I’ll get it done.”

…

“I shot the bastard right through the shoulder and he just kept on walking. Who the fuck can do that?” Jim demands.

“McCoy’s been shot numerous times, he’s got medical training, he must have – patches himself up as soon as he can, minimal scaring, no noticeable physical impairments even though Rand shot him in the thigh four times seven years ago.” Pike says.

“You know all this and you can’t get me a photo of the guy?” Jim questions.

“He’s careful. Used to sleep around a bit, we’ve got a lot of what we know of him from a few pretty faces down South other than that he’s practically a ghost. And he’s been quiet on that front the last five years or so. We have nothing up to date on him.” Pike explains.

“Why was he a mark for Rand?” Jim asks, thinking about the rough skin of Leo’s left thigh, back and front, an incident with barbed wire when he was a kid.

“Similar situation to this, he was out for Nero about the same time we were. Before you were assigned to the case Rand was on it.” Pike explains.

“He got Nero? So he’d have been in Cuba?” Jim says slowly.

“Oh shit.” Pike says, realisation dawning.

“Lying fucking asshole.” Jim whispers. “ _Fuck_.” 

…

“Christine, go a little easy, would ya?” Leo says as the pain spikes through his shoulder. “Phil, is there any chance I’d have gone up against this guy before? He seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“I doubt it. He _was_ in Cuba for Nero a few years back… what was that? Five, six years ago?” Phil shrugs.

“James... Jim. _Jim_.”

…

Jim has the table set when Leo gets home, it’s too normal, too perfect. Jim isn’t bitching about how gross peas are and Leo isn’t heading for the good bourbon. They drink red wine poured from a bottle Leo brought home with him. Although Jim doesn’t actually touch his glass, drinks the water he bought today from their local grocery mart.

When Jim pulls out a carving knife Leo almost goes for his gun, but then Jim is slicing the roast beef and Leo has to hold himself back. They make mindless chatter as they eat their meal. Jim even brings out soufflé that he can’t have cooked himself but either way Leo still doesn’t trust Jim not to poison him and so he simply decimates it with his spoon without ever taking a single bite.

“How was work?” Jim asks. And maybe finally they’re getting down to business.

“Actually there was a bit of an uproar.” Leo admits. “Someone double booked my theatre slot.”

“Any causalities?” Jim wonders.

“Thankfully not.” Leo says. “How was the flight to Atlanta?”

“There was some unexpected turbulence.” Jim admits. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Well that’s alright then.” Leo says.

“You’re favouring your shoulder.” Jim points out.

“Just stress spots from being hunched over hospital beds all day.” Leo shrugs.

“You want a massage?” Jim asks, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Maybe later.” Leo deflects. “You want more wine?” He asks, lifting Jim’s glass and pouring. They stare at each other for a minute and probably realise this isn’t going to be as easy as they’d thought. Leo lets the bottle slip through his fingers but Jim catches it deftly. Not a drop spilled. Jim locks eyes with Leo, and it seems that all the little inconsistencies over the years fall into place. Jim loosens his grasp on the bottle and it falls onto the cream carpet.

They both jump up to get a cloth, driving into different rooms. Leo sheds himself of his jumper, now just in a white t-shirt and dark faded jeans. He gets into the hallway and draws his gun.

“Jim.” He calls.

“In here. _Bones_.” Jim says from the kitchen.

“Maybe we should talk about this before we get all fired up.” Leo says, rounding the corner, meeting the sight of Jim in a black cashmere turtleneck and too tight black jeans.

“I’ll shoot you in the other shoulder.” Jim threatens.

“No you won’t.” Leo huffs.

“You _lied_ to me.” Jim states.

“Pot, kettle, darlin’.” Leo scoffs.

“Don’t you dare _darlin_ ’ me.” Jim pouts.

“Look-”

But Jim starts shooting and so Leo has to drive out of the kitchen, heading into the hall, shooting threw the kitchen wall and hoping his aim is someway on point from this awkward position. But Jim is rounding the corner with a Thompson and where in God’s name did he get one of those.

“You okay, baby?” Jim smirks, shooting while Leo scampers back behind another wall, he picks up a vase and throws it at the wall beside Jim’s head, not only putting the blond off of his shooting but also nicking the side of Jim’s cheek with a few ricochet ceramic pieces. “Motherfucker.” Jim hisses, wiping blood from his cheek.

Soon enough they run out of bullets and so they have to get closer, start fighting hand to hand. It’s perfect form to begin with, almost polite but then Jim breaks a bottle of _Southern Comfort_ over a cabinet and starts swiping at it in Leo’s direction. Leo just punches Jim square in the mouth, kicking the legs out from underneath him. They scramble around on the floor, Jim trying to strangle Leo while Leo tries to knee Jim in the abdomen, just enough so he can lift Jim into the mirror. But then Jim elbows Leo in the jaw and soon enough the Southerner is on the floor having ten kinds of shit kicked out of his ribs. Until Leo kicks Jim in the groin. Then they’re both on the floor, panting, bruised, bloody.

They push themselves up from the floor and face each other down again. Jim blinking back stars and Leo holding one hand to his ribs, hiss shoulder has started bleeding again and the darkened patch is easy to see on his t-shirt.

They each dive for an abandoned gun simultaneously and a split second later have said guns pointed at their lovers throat. They wait, panting. Leo shakes his head.

“I can’t do it.” He says lowering his gun and Jim growls.

“Yes you _can_. Come on.” Jim urges. “Come _on_.”

“You keep the Harrison file. It’s yours.” Leo says easily.

They stare at each other. Jim has tears in his eyes, they’re angry and hateful but relieved and so goddamned happy too. Leo pushes the gun away from his neck. Knocking it out of Jim’s hand and pulling him in for a kiss. It tastes of blood and sweat.

It’s rough in a way they’ve never been with each other. Jim pushes Leo threw the glass kitchen door so he can rip the man’s t-shirt off and smash their lips together. It’s like they’re still fighting. Leo lifting Jim, thighs tightly wrapped around his waist. Then, fucking Jim bareback on the kitchen counter, Leo’s shoulder furiously pumping blood out onto Jim’s chest. They purposefully ruin every ornament in their house, every piece of glass shattered, every ceramic tile cracked. Jim bites and pinches and Leo’s finger’s imprint bruises into Jim’s hips.

“Shit.” Jim says when they’re finished, they’re in the hall. On the wooden floor.

The doorbell rings.

It’s their neighbours and the police. Jim makes a lewd show of the fact that he’s naked, wrapped only in a length of curtain tore down in their earlier foray. Leo blushes, back to being the Southern gentleman. They close the door and look at each other.

“I’m starving.” Jim says.

“Food.” Leo moans. “Good idea.”

They eat breakfast off of broken crockery, butter their toast using military blades.

“D’you know, I’m partially colour blind? I got hit with a chlorine gas grenade on my first mission, that’s the irony of me being a pilot.” Jim admits.

“I can’t feel anything in these three fingers.” Leo holds up the middle, ring and pinkie of his right hand.

“How many times you been shot?” Jim asks.

“Seventeen. On eleven separate occasions. One of your lot shot me four times, just before we met.” Leo admits.

“Rand, I know, that’s how I figured it out.” Jim admits.

“You been shot?” Leo wonders.

“No.” Jim shakes his head. “Been stabbed a couple times.”

“I prefer to be the one doing the stabbing.” Leo says.

“You got a thing for knives?” Jim questions, suitably impressed.

“I keep a scalpel or two handy. I’m a doctor remember.” Leo smirks.

“You’re an asshole.” Jim scoffs.

“We’re going to need to disappear.” Leo says.

“Where would you like to go?” Jim wonders.

“Doesn’t matter much, as long as I’m with you.” Leo admits.

“Well lets go then. We’ll take the Maserati.” Jim stands up, throws on a t-shirt and boxers. Leo looks at his husband with mild awe and not a little amusement. He scoffs and shrugs into a hoodie, pulls on his jeans and throws a pair of sweatpants at Jim.

They stop off at a department store; buy suitcases and a new wardrobe. Head to a weapons dealer Jim knows through the archives and kit themselves up with the bare necessities. The CIA and FBI will know they’ve been duped when they check their credit card statements. But after that they’ll find no trace of Leo or Jim.

They’re going to drive to Mexico.

And then they’re going to vanish.

 


End file.
